


Out of Sight

by larxenethefirefly



Series: Out of 'Verse [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:46:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larxenethefirefly/pseuds/larxenethefirefly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when the night is especially quiet, the Doctor can do nothing else but give in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Sight

**Author's Note:**

> The prequel to Out of Mind. Thanks to my lovely beta, Develish1!!
> 
> * * *

It was a guilty pleasure of his, but he couldn’t help himself. Even in his last body he had always been drawn to her, migrating into her orbit during moments of weakness. Especially at night. It was always too quiet at night, reminding him of the Silence after the War, and times before he found her golden, little human mind to take comfort in. It was always buzzing in the back of his mind, flashes of colour and disjointed thoughts, happy and bubbly and there. And when she was sleeping, the buzzing died down to muted tones, and inevitably he’d go to her bedside to make certain he wasn’t making her presence up.

Tonight was different. Not different as in a sudden occurrence that had never happened, but different in the fact that she was, well, anxious. Ashamed. He knew what this meant- it had happened before- and despite the warnings from the TARDIS and his own subconscious the Doctor quietly turned to the monitor on the console, pressed a few buttons, and brought up the image of Rose Tyler’s bedroom.

\---

Rose couldn’t sleep. Not from a lack of trying; she’d been tossing and turning for hours, trying to get her body settled down and to clear her mind from the day’s events. Nothing seemed to help, and all the sheep in the world couldn’t make her forget the way his body, long and lean and everything that drove her wild, pressed up against hers in all the right areas.

She knew it had been an accident; one moment they were strolling down an alley, trying to find some elusive market stall the Doctor wanted to visit, and the next some jokester pulled out a water gun disguised as the real item and the Doctor tackled her to the ground. Suddenly, someone pointing a gun at them was only peripheral knowledge. The Doctor was on top of her, hand cradling her head and the other wrapped around her back, her hands fisted in his lapels. His wide-eyed gaze looking down at her was the only indication that this wasn’t on purpose, but her mind wanted it to be.

Though she didn’t want to admit it, it seemed her body was in control here. Rose closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled, drawing the memory back to the forefront of her mind, imagining what it felt like to be pressed against him, his narrow hips on top of hers, legs tangled, chest against chest. How his breath had brushed against her face, delicately, on every exhale, and how his freckles seemed to be in sharp relief so close to her face. Her scalp had tingled where his palm rested, her hips had shifted minimally where his cradled hers. Slowly, so slowly, Rose’s hands smoothed down her nightgown and gently traced the hem as her memory melded into fantasy.

\---

The Doctor watched, through the screen, as Rose gave in to her body’s demands. He knew the instant she gave up, not only from the resignation in the back of his mind, but from her sudden stillness in bed. He watched as she kicked off the covers, and his gaze intensified as she began to slowly remove her nightgown. He watched her hands, the way her hips lifted slightly, her body undulating as the nightgown moved up, up, and away to land in an ivory puddle by her bedside. Rose inhaled, then breathed out slowly, her hands lingering lightly on her stomach. He swallowed as one drifted up to palm her breast, not moving, simply giving gentle pressure. Her other hand moved between her legs, stroking gently, building up embers she would soon enflame.

The TARDIS beeped angrily at him, but the Doctor ignored his ship. His own hand, the one not gripping the edge of the console in a death grip, palmed his trousers, feeling the stirrings of arousal low in his belly and in the tingling running down his spine. Nostrils flaring, pupils contracting and expanding, he imagined himself above her, looking down, his hands in exchange for hers, his tongue exploring every inch of skin on show. On screen, Rose gasped, her fingers slowly entering her, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

He rubbed himself to the pace she set, slowly, languidly, with long strokes. Slowly up, quickly down, his eyes riveted to where her fingers moved inside her.

Rose was beginning to squirm, breath coming in shorter bursts. The hand on her breast, which had been relatively still until now, began moving, rubbing, massaging, pinching. The Doctor groaned, and pressed the heel of his palm into his growing erection. His other hand stiffly unclenched itself from the console, moving to fumble at the zip of his trousers.

In his mind, he was tasting that patch of skin at the join of shoulder and neck, imagining how it would taste. Like that brand of soap she uses, sweat, and the atmosphere of whatever planet they were on. Maybe even the faintest hint of him, especially if they had curled up on the sofa in the library, and his head had been resting on her shoulder.

Rose, of course, would be naked, and squirming, just like she was now; arching and breathing his name, over and over again as his hands wandered across her body. Instead of her fingers curling and twisting within her, it would be his; instead of his hands struggling to get his trousers and pants off it would be hers.

The moment his trousers and pants hit the floor, he gripped the console again, steadying himself. Rose was panting and he imagined it was because his mouth had encircled one pert nipple, and he was playing with the round bud even as his fingers continued to work within her. Subconsciously he was mirroring her rhythm, down fast, twist, up slowly, dragging out the sensation. Rose was writhing, wriggling, and he was above her, sliding into her as he moved to kiss her, taking her body like he was taking her mouth.

Their kiss, he thought, would be sloppy. Harsh. It would be full of need and desperation and an effort to connect in every way possible. Teeth would sometimes click together and someone’s nose would end up mashed into the other’s face, but it would match the desire heightening between them. Her hands would be on his bum, squeezing, groping, caressing, pushing while one of his would be holding her thigh in place around his hips as the other gripped the headboard.

His hand tightened almost punishingly. Rose was close, and he had to finish with her...

~*~

In her mind, Rose pictured this:

The Doctor, sweaty and glistening, his hair plastered to his forehead as he pushed into her, steadily, eyes locked with hers and her legs wrapped around his waist. The pace would be rhythmic, deep but still forceful, making her breath catch every time he pressed into her as far as he could go. His hips would fit perfectly between hers, the edges of a jigsaw puzzle fitting to complete a glorious picture.

She groaned his name, begging him to help her finish. In her mind he whispered for her to come, just for him, come Rose, come. Her fingers curled, her thumb pressed down hard on her clit, and she cried out his name in a muffled whimper to prevent him hearing her.

~*~

When she said his name, he lost all pretense of control. His illusion faltered but he could still hear her voice echoing in his ear as if she really were panting into it. He forced himself to stop, bend painfully over to grab his pants, and with a few more jerks he was coming hard, using his pants to cover him so as to not anger the TARDIS more (he learned his lesson the hard way). The jumpseat seemed to materialize behind him and he stumbled into it, breathing raggedly. He watched as Rose settled down, pulling on her nightgown before curling up under the covers. The TARDIS beeped angrily at him then shut the screen off, but the deed was done and he let his own eyes drift closed, finally allowing the shame to creep through. If Rose knew what he had done...

Well, she wasn’t going to find out. It would be his own secret, one of many that he kept from her. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging a bit at the hair at the nape of his neck, and tried not to think of what it would feel like if Rose did it. He determinedly shook off that line of thought and carefully cleaned himself up, wadding up his pants and throwing them into the hamper that the TARDIS provided for him. The hamper disappeared with a rude noise, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the TARDIS burned that particular pair of pants. She was fiercely protective over Rose, and only the connection he had with the TARDIS allowed him some sway over that instinct.

“It doesn’t make me feel any better, you know,” He mumbled into the quiet space as he pulled his trousers up. The TARDIS remained silent. “But I can’t taint her. I can’t... this is the best way.”

The lights flickered slightly, and though he knew he wasn’t quite forgiven, the TARDIS at least understood in her own unique way.

He stopped by Rose’s room on the way to the library, finding her sound asleep. Her face looked peaceful, innocent. “Good night, Rose,” he whispered, then continued to the library where he could drown out the silence by throwing himself into studies.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=50148>


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